


Beyond Heaven

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Kissing, Longing, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics, Soft feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29632785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: There’s a knock on the door, and he knows it’s his steward, Jopson, simply from the sound of his knuckles against the wood. Jopson has a brisk yet respectful manner of knocking on a door. He has a brisk yet respectful manner about him in the execution of all his duties, and his duties are numerous. Francis can’t help but let a small smile play about his mouth as he says “Enter!”
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Beyond Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> I love them so much. I ship them so hard. I will flood this fandom with cropson/jopzier fics if you give me half a chance. I also took this opportunity to basically fawn over how beautiful Liam Garrigan is. God DAMN but that man is gorgeous. Anyway, this wasn't beta read, and I hope you enjoy :)

It’s been a long day. They’ve all been long. And if he’s being honest, Captain Francis Crozier knows ‘day’ is a gross parody of the meaning of the word. It’s January, at the frozen top of the world, and they’re trapped in ice, covered by a thick blanket of soot gray cloud. There hasn’t been true daylight in months. 

They’re stuck and they all know it. There’s a high likelihood that they’ll all die out here, and they all know that too. Resentment, frustration and pure, abject terror hang in the air on board both ships, and Francis sometimes feels he wants to rip his skin off to get away from it. Just cut himself down the middle and step out of himself and go away somewhere else. Anywhere else. 

There’s a knock on the door, and he knows it’s his steward, Jopson, simply from the sound of his knuckles against the wood. Jopson has a brisk yet respectful manner of knocking on a door. He has a brisk yet respectful manner about him in the execution of all his duties, and his duties are numerous. Francis can’t help but let a small smile play about his mouth as he says “Enter!”

Jopson pokes his head in, his ice blue eyes soft and inquisitive, his dark hair neatly combed. “Begging your pardon sir, but the cook would like to know if you’d be alright with the kidneys and cabbage again tomorrow night, being as it’s on offer to the rest of the men and he has plenty.”

“That’ll be fine Jopson.”

His steward nods and moves to leave.

“Hold a moment Jopson. Won’t you come in?” He has no real reason to detain the man, no reason other than looking at him is soothing on the eyes. No reason other than that he’s always so attentive, so cheerful and so kind. His presence is a balm to Francis’ sour mood, and so he invents reasons to keep Jopson around. The younger man may realize this, but Francis is beyond caring at this point. 

“Yes? What can I do for you sir?”

“Have a drink with me,” Francis raises his own crystal tumbler in Jopson’s direction and turns to uncork the decanter that sits on the table at his elbow.

“Oh sir, I couldn’t do that. I’m still on duty.” 

“Are you now?” Francis asks. He enjoys teasing Jopson a little too much sometimes. It’s easy and it warms his heart to see the other man’s blush. “What exactly are your duties for the rest of the evening?”

“Well sir, to make certain your suit is brushed, that your shoes are shined. And I haven’t yet reported to the cook. And then there’s the matter of putting away your things sir. I can’t simply leave them lyin about can I?”

Francis’ face splits in a genuine smile this time. “Jopson, lad, all of those duties sound like they revolve around looking after me, and so I hereby relieve you of them.”

Jopson’s cheeks, already chapped pink from the freezing temperatures turn to a deeper shade, and Francis feels a small swell of triumph. The man surely is a thing of beauty when he blushes. A lovely rose in a graveyard full of ice. 

“Oh sir, I couldn’t possibly-”

“Thomas,” Francis says, stern yet fond. “It’s 8 o’clock in the evening. It’s fifteen below zero outside. None of us have seen the sun in weeks. We’re allowed to sit and simply relax now and then. You’ve earned it. You’re the only thing keeping me from falling down into a pile of rubble, so please, for the love of all that’s holy, just sit and have a drink with me won’t you?”

Jopson ducks his head, smiles a shy smile and turns to shut the door behind him. Francis knows he isn’t pushing the younger man to do anything he doesn’t want to. It’s merely that his work ethic drives him to protest. He’ll only abandon his duties if ordered to. And so Francis gives the order and is warmed by the gleam in Jopson’s eyes, the sight of his smiling face and flushed cheeks. 

Jopson sits down and waits patiently while Francis pours him a measure of whiskey, pushes the tumbler of amber liquid across the table to his steward, and watches as Jopson wraps long, pale fingers around the glass. “To you sir,” he raises the glass in Francis’ direction, looking up at his captain through thick, dark lashes. “To your health.” 

“To yours as well Jopson,” Francis smiles warmly, “to all our health. We’ll need it.” At that, he knocks back his own drink and then watches while Jopson takes a measured sip of his. “How are the men this evening?” He asks. 

“They’re alright sir. A bit restless perhaps from all the time indoors, below decks, but they’re holding up.”

“Good. They’re good men. They’ve put up with a lot on this nightmare of an expedition.”

“And you sir?” Jopson asks, nodding in Francis’ direction. “How are you doing?”

“I’m faring well enough,” Francis takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and lets it out in a long exhale through his nose. The truth is that he’s not faring all that well. He’s been leaning a bit heavily on the drink. He’s been having bad dreams. He probably can’t hide these things from his steward, who has intimate knowledge of virtually everything about Francis, but he’ll put on a show anyway. 

True to form, Jopson isn’t fooled. “Sir,” he says, and Francis can hear the mother hen tone in his voice, and readies himself for one of Jopson’s gentle lectures. “Perhaps you should head to bed early tonight. I can see to things here, and you can get some extra sleep.”

“I’ll be fine,” Francis waves away the younger man’s concern and goes to pour himself another drink. 

“I mean it sir. You’ve been working day and night. You’re exhausted. Sleep will do you far better than another drink.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Francis admits defeat. He only pours a small shot into his glass before recorking the decanter, smiles at Jopson over the rim of his glass before he tips the whiskey down his throat. “Just a little night cap,” he says. Jopson returns his smile. 

“Here,” Jopson takes a last sip of his own drink and stands. “I’ll help you out of your uniform sir, help you ready yourself for bed.”

Francis submits to being fussed over. It is a thing Jopson has insisted on when they’re alone, and it speaks of some sort of deeper need the man must have for care giving, because it goes beyond the closeness usually expected or allowed between a Captain and his steward. Jopson first assists Francis in shrugging off his coat and goes to hang it up, then he returns to unbutton Francis’ waistcoat with deft, slender fingers. This is a thing that Francis particularly enjoys watching, though he’d never admit it. 

Once Francis’ waistcoat is removed and hung up, next Jopson assists the Captain with lifting his shirt over his head, then helping him to pull up and remove his under vest. The shirt is hung up, the vest neatly folded, and then Francis is shirtless. It’s chilly as usual in his rooms, and his flesh comes over instantly with goose pimples as the cold air hits him. Jopson however is quick to fetch his nightdress and drop it over his head, and then assists him with getting his arms into the sleeves. This allows the Captain to undo his trousers and push them down from underneath his nightdress, and then step out of them. These too, Jopson picks up and folds neatly, placing them in Francis’ closet. 

Francis watches the man walk around the room, tidying, folding, hanging his clothes with precision and care. He notes with pleasure Jopson’s broad shoulders, strong arms and narrow waist, his raven dark hair and pale, pale skin and cannot help but think that despite the refusal of his proposals he suffered in London before the expedition set sail, he has still somehow managed to acquire himself a wife of sorts. And a kind and loving one at that. 

As soon as Francis’ clothing is carefully stowed away and hung up, Jopson turns his attention to the bed. He folds back the covers invitingly, then plumps up the pillow with a few quick motions of his hand before stepping back to allow Francis to climb in. But Francis isn’t quite ready to lie down yet. He’s feeling a bit melancholy and more than a little lonely. The presence of his steward, his companion, a lovely flower he dare not touch, is a little harder to bear tonight. He sits upon the mattress and puts his head in his hands and lets out a soft sigh. 

“What is it sir?” Jopson is at his side in an instant, his presence warm and close. Francis feels a tentative touch to his shoulder, and before he can stop himself, he reaches up and grasps Jopson’s hand in his. He holds it, like he’s captured a live dove, holds onto it with both of his own hands, firmly but gently so that it does not fly away, and looks up into Jopson’s surprised face. 

“I am lonely tonight,” he confesses. “Lonely and lost. I must admit Thomas, this expedition has taken all the fight out of me. The cold. The deaths. The relentless darkness. I feel...I am..lost.” He can’t quite find the right words to express what he’s feeling, but this is close enough. 

Immediately upon hearing Francis’ words, Jopson is on his knees before the bed. He covers Francis’ two hands with his one, and looks intently into his Captain’s eyes. “What is it that you need sir?” He asks, sincerity and devotion ringing in every syllable. 

It’s almost more than Francis can stand. It takes some bravery to hold Jopson’s gaze. “I cannot say,” he sags, drops his eyes from Jopson’s icy blue eyes and hangs his head. “I cannot say. And it is something you cannot give me.” 

“I would give you anything, sir,” Jopson’s reply is immediate, soft, yet earnest, and the boldness of it brings Francis’ head up again to peer at him. 

“You do not mean that, Thomas. There are some things a man cannot, _should not_ give another man.” He is being purposefully vague, for he can still take shelter in insisting he meant some other form of aid or devotion if Jopson balks and decides he does not like the sound of the Captain's words. 

“I do mean it,” Jopson insists, and as he says this, Francis becomes aware that the other man’s thumb is making soft, lazy strokes across the back of Francis’ hand. This small, simple act sends a thrill through him. It has a far greater effect than any simple motion of thumb against skin should have, and Frances sucks in a sharp breath at the flush of lust he feels well up inside him.

“Jopson, what is it you think that I am asking of you?” he cannot continue this unless he is certain Jopson and he are on the same page. Otherwise he risks too much. He has no real worry that Jopson will report him. He knows in his bones that his steward would give his life to protect his Captain. That the man looks upon him with eyes full of admiration. But it is not quite admiration he is after. It is something more dangerous than that.

“I dare not say,” Jopson replies, his breath coming faster. “For if I am wrong, I will surely be punished for it. But know sir, that if is what I hope for, then it is a thing I would gladly give you.” The motion of Jopson’s thumb has not ceased, and his tongue, pink and soft, slips from his mouth to wet his lower lip. Francis tracks it with his eyes hungrily. 

They are at a stand still, and Francis can feel the thudding of his heartbeat from where their hands are joined together, unsure if he feels Jopson’s as well, or only his own. He pulls one of his hands from Jopson’s and reaches up, slowly, tentatively to brush the ebony-black fall of hair away from his steward’s forehead. At the feel of Francis’ fingertips, Jopson closes his eyes, dark lashes fluttering down to rest against his flushed cheek, and this is a compelling enough piece of evidence that he might know full well what it is Francis wants from him. 

Francis frees his other hand, and brings it up to caress Jopson’s cheek, and even though the man’s skin is chapped with the cold, it is still the softest thing he’s touched outside of the fur collar on his Captain’s dress coat. Jopson leans into the touch, like an affectionate house cat, and sighs and Francis feels every nerve of his skin light up at that thrilling response. 

His heart thuds like a timpani drum, pounding away inside his chest, and he dare not move, dare not breath. The man he’s wanted, yearned for for the past three years is here, kneeling before him, delighting in his touch, and yet he cannot bring himself to take it further. He is Jopson’s Captain, and that knowledge lives in his heart, a compelling reminder that he holds power over the younger man. Jopson is not Sophia Cracroft, wealthy, well connected. He is a poor Captain’s steward, on his knees on a dark ship in the middle of an unforgiving wasteland. Francis cannot compel the younger man to do what he so wants him to do. It would be immoral. Not to mention illegal and cruel. But he can put himself close to Jopson and hope...

Jopson though, takes the decision out of his hands. He opens his pale blue eyes, trains them on Francis’ face, then leans forward, slowly, hesitantly, all while Francis watches him, until he presses his lips to Francis’ lips. This is all the welcome Francis needs, and he brings his other hand up to frame Jopson’s face and kisses him back eagerly. Jopson makes a soft, keening noise and wraps his arms around his neck, and Francis moves his hands from Jopson’s face so that he can wrap his arms around the man’s waist and pull him close, snugly between his spread knees. 

Jopson’s lips taste of whiskey. He smells a little of stale sweat and damp wool, but also of a wild, herbal sort of smell. His lips are chapped but warm, they press against Francis’ and he is so pliant and willing in Francis’ arms. It is a thing he has spent long years without. A beautiful, willing companion in his embrace. He feels tears sting at the corners of his closed eyes.

He thinks Jopson will pull away, but instead, the other man teases at the crease between Francis’ lips with his tongue. Francis opens his mouth and the kiss deepens and he cannot help but moan at the delightful feel of Jopson’s tongue slipping into his mouth to wend hotly with his own. His cock is stiff now, throbbing up against his belly, and Jopson’s body is inches away from pressing against it. He helps this along by scooting forward toward the edge of his mattress and pulling Jopson more tightly against him, and the friction of the man’s torso against his cock through the thin material of his nightdress makes him moan again, low and needy. 

“Sir,” Jopson pulls away far enough so that he can whisper against Francis’ lips. “I think it best if I lock the door, don’t you?”

This makes Francis smile. Jopson is so good at small details, and this is a rather large one that Francis hadn’t even had the presence of mind to consider. “Yes,” he says, his voice low and gruff but full of soft humour. “Yes, if you would.” 

Jopson is out of his arms and up, striding toward the door and Francis swears his cock grows even stiffer at the sound of the bolt being driven home. He hurriedly gets into bed, moves over stretches out onto his side, leaving the covers flipped back invitingly. He will not ask Jopson to get in beside him, but he is hoping the man will offer. He’ll make it as appealing an option as he can and see what his steward does. 

Jopson returns, and to Francis’ delight, he begins undressing. Francis watches him patiently while the younger man unbuttons and sheds his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt and undervest. Unlike his Captain’s clothing, Jopson drapes his own clothes over a nearby chair. Not haphazardly, but with half the care he’d use to take care of his Captain’s things. His skin is so pale it’s almost translucent from lack of sunlight. And he’s far thinner than he was when their voyage began. There’s a pleasing thatch of dark hair across his chest and down his belly, becoming a dark trail that leads temptingly into his waistband. Francis lets his eyes travel down the length of Jopson’s torso to rest on where his ever-nimble fingers are now undoing the buttons of his trousers. He pushes his trousers and underthings down in one go, and steps out of them, affording Francis a thrilling glimpse of his stiff cock. It’s long and slender and pink, gleaming the tip with his excitement and Francis bites back a moan at the sight of it. 

Blessedly, his steward does not take the time to ask permission, and simply climbs into bed with Francis. It’s far too cold for politeness, and Jopson’s skin is marbled with goose flesh where Francis strokes a hand up his arm to cup the back of his neck. He makes certain they’re both well covered with blankets before wrapping Jopson in his embrace. The feel of the slender younger man’s body, stark naked, willing, warm and pressed against him makes him feel wealthy in a way no amount of gold or Royal accolades ever could. Their mouths blend back together, hot and slick and Jopson is moaning, pressing against him, softly frotting them together. Francis wants to pull his nightdress up to feel Jopson’s skin on his own, but he takes a few moments to simply revel in the pure joy and heat that comes from this soft, urgent kissing, this clumsy rubbing. It’s the best thing he’s felt that didn’t live inside a glass decanter and he has no desire to rush things. 

Jopson’s excitement is spurring his own. He can just barely remember being that young, that vigorous and responsive. He’s an old man now, and if this weren’t a scenario that he finds so incredibly arousing, he doubts he’d be able to get himself to such a tumescent state so quickly. He sneaks a hand down to grip at Jopson’s soft, firm buttock and Jopson breaks their kiss to throw his head back and gasp. Francis uses this opportunity to suck at the pale stretch of Jopson’s neck, causing still more lovely gasps to issue forth. 

“Oh sir, oh.. Oh.. I’ve wanted this so badly,” Jopson’s voice is a broken, ragged whisper, and it thrills Francis to his core. To hear the blatant heat and longing in that gasped confession. 

He doesn’t reply, only lathes at Jopson’ throat with the flat of his tongue before sinking his teeth, gently but firmly into the junction of the younger man’s neck and shoulder. 

“Ah! Fuck!” Jopson is doing his best to stay quiet. They both must be quiet. But the ship is surrounded by the creaking ice, and the sounds of their congress are likely further hidden by the hustle and bustle of the men passing by in the corridors outside. Still, Francis pulls back and gentles his kisses. It seems Jopson enjoys some rough treatment. He tests this theory by winding the fingers of his hand into Jopson’s thick hair and clenching a fistful of it. He’s rewarded by another gasped curse and a renewal of Jopson’s urgent rutting against him and smiles. 

He can’t bear to be separated from Jopsons’ body by his nightdress any longer and so he pushes Jopson away gently and reaches for the hem, pulling the material up enough to expose his chest and belly and cock, while not taking it off completely, an act that would be far too awkward to accomplish while lying on a small mattress with another person.

They press back together and Francis groans in the pure pleasure of feeling another’s skin slide against his own for the first time in years. “Oh Christ lad, you feel like silk,” he murmurs against Jopson’s lips before kissing him. Jopson moans back, a note of desperation in the noise as he presses hungrily against Francis and their kiss becomes a wild, messy thing. He’s sucking Francis’ lower lip into his mouth and his hand is gripping Francis’ hip as he thrusts, with small, needy pulses of his hips, rubbing them together with maddening friction. 

“Shhh, shh lad, slow down a bit,” Francis whispers, puts his hand to Jopson’s hip and holds him steady for a moment, pleased that it takes Jopson what looks like a good bit of self control to stop his desperate frotting. It’s flattering to be so desired by someone so achingly beautiful. “We have time lad, and I want to enjoy you.” 

Jopson nods, panting and flushed. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, clearly struggling to regain some measure of composure, always striving to do as his Captain asks, and Francis takes a moment to admire him. His thick lashes and pinked cheeks, his lovely mouth, how it’s parted from breathless desire. Thomas Jopson is by far the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes upon. Prettier than the molly boys back home, prettier than those stiff, society women he’d been forced to chat with at dull functions, with all their artfully arranged curls and carefully practiced manners. 

It was Jopson’s beauty that first drew Francis’ eye, and then, it was his steward’s tireless dedication, his soft humor and his kindness that had Francis completely smitten. He’s hid the feelings well over the years, masquerading them as fatherly affection. And it is easy to see Jopsons tireless dedication to him as that of a surrogate son. And if that’s all it had been, Francis would have taken it gladly and held back. Losing Jopson’s respect would never have been worth it, and so he’s kept silent. Until tonight. And now, he has the man naked and willing in his arms. More than willing. _Eager._ Half out of his mind with lust, and it makes his heart swell inside his chest with gratitude and deep affection.

He reaches out and cups Jopson’s face with his hand, and again, Jopson leans into the touch. He gently strokes his thumb over Jopson’s full lower lip and feels the other man moan in response. Jopson opens his mouth and envelops Francis’ thumb, sucking at it as if it were a small cock, and Francis groans and presses against him. “Jesus lad, you’ll be the death of me,” he whispers roughly as Jopson, eyes still closed, sucks his thumb deep into the wet heat of his mouth. 

After a few thrilling moments, Francis pulls his thumb free and replaces it with his tongue and they share a long, slow, languid kiss. Jopson breaks the kiss to say “I want to suck you,” and Francis can only nod in response, for he doesn’t trust himself to speak. He obligingly rolls to his back and Jopson clumsily makes his way onto his knees between Francis’ legs. Once there, he takes Francis by the base and sinks him into his searing hot mouth without preamble. Francis can only gasp and throw his head back at the unbelievable pleasure. Jopson is moaning around his cock, sliding up and down slowly, letting his lips drag along Francis’ length, and it’s doing his head in.

“Fuck, Thomas, fuck, you’ll end me too quickly if you keep that up.” He thinks it’s important to warn Jopson, for he feels himself tighten and quicken swiftly under the younger man’s tender attentions. 

Jopson pulls off him with a soft pop and looks back up at him with those eerily blue eyes, like some wild thing, his dark hair falling into his face, and Francis thinks maybe he’ll be able to spill untouched, just from the look of him. “Sir,” Jopson says with a small smile, “let me take care of you.” And with that, he sinks back down onto Francis with a low moan and begins working him slowly again, using both his hand and his mouth to the best advantage. 

Francis surrenders to his steward’s care, thrusting up gently into his busy mouth and biting his fist to keep from crying out as Jopson works him steadily and skillfully toward his release. He’s making soft, encouraging noises around the cock in his mouth, urging Francis onward with a hand on his hip and Francis realizes it’s pointless to try and draw this out. He lets his pleasure build and peak, gripping the sheets in both hands, gasping as he arches up and explodes. He spills helplessly into Jopson’s mouth and groans out his name, trying his best to stay quiet. 

Once the sharp twist of pleasure and the pulses of bliss have slowed and faded away, he falls limp against the bed, panting hard and utterly spent. Jopson releases him gently and Francis can hear the soft noise of his throat move as he swallows the last of Francis’ spend. He climbs back up to lie in Francis’ arms and Francis strokes his hair and praises him softly. “You’re so good. You’re so beautiful. You’re so good to me.” Jopson submits to both the praise and the tender touches happily, pressing against him, his heart pounding and his skin soft and sweet smelling. He rests his head on Francis’ chest, his hot breath gusting pleasantly against Francis' nipple, dampening his skin. 

Francis can feel Jopson’s cocksand, hot and hard and lying against his upper thigh. He knows Jopson won’t ask for release, and he smiles up at the ceiling, thinking of how much he’ll enjoy making the man in his arms fall apart with pleasure. 

He reaches down and strokes his fingers slowly up Jopson’s length, pausing to play for a second at his tip, and Jopson makes a choked sound and thrusts with his hips. “Oh sir, oh!” he gasps, bringing his mouth up to kiss at Francis’ neck. 

Francis grasps the stiff column of Jopson’s cockstand and begins to frig him off gently, slowly, delighting in the helpless noises Jopson makes, in the sloppy kisses he’s pressing into Francis’ neck. Francis is still on his back, his other arm trapped beneath Jopson, who is on his side, and he uses that hand to squeeze at and tease Jopson’s buttocks as he jerks him. He brings that hand up to his mouth and sucks his own finger deep, wetting it well before he uses it to tease at the top of the cleft in Jopson’s arse. Jopson bucks back against that questing digit, and moans, making his approval clear, and so Francis reaches lower, drives his finger down into the hot space between Jopson’s buttocks to stroke at the secret, puckered mouth of his arsehole. Jopson gasps and arches back against the soft, wet intrusion. Clearly enjoying that sort of attention. 

Francis works him from both angles, gently stroking his cock, while teasing at his arse and Jopson is overwhelmed with pleasure. He’s a gasping, thrusting mess, cursing softly, calling out “yes sir, oh, yes sir, please sir,” in a low whispered prayer. In between the begging, he lavishes Francis’ neck and chest and mouth with kisses. Francis plays the younger man’s body like a well tuned instrument, pulling those lovely sounds from his mouth, making him writhe. 

He increases the speed of his hand on Jopson’s cock and simultaneously presses his fingertip into the tight heat of the man’s rectum and Jopson cries out, “oh God, oh God sir,” and stiffens and trembles as he spills. His spend slicks the movement of Francis’ hand and wets his stomach with hot splashes, and the noises Jopson makes, such beautiful noises, it's almost enough to get Francis aroused for a second go. But he’s well into his fifties, exhausted from constant cold and constant worry, and even the sound and feel of a beautiful man, coming apart in his arms can’t make miracles happen. 

Still, it’s enough, more than enough to hold Jopson close in the aftermath of his crisis. To stroke his hair and kiss his sweat damp brow. Jopson rests heavy and warm in his arms, nuzzling his face into Francis’ neck and delivering soft little kisses there, thanking him over and over. It is beyond a dream. Beyond heaven, with its dull depictions of angels bearing harps, and its’ endless psalms. Francis would far rather spend eternity with Jopson, warm and soft and kissing him so tenderly than with any choir of angels on high. 

They fall asleep just like that, wrapped in each other's arms, messy and happy. It must be well past midnight when Francis is woken by Jopson leaving he bed. He reaches out for him, bleary with sleep and loose from spent pleasure, but Jopson only presses him back to bed and tucks the covers around him. “Shush now sir, rest well. I’m to get back to my own quarters, before the men wake up.” 

Francis frowns, but he’s too tired to protest, and soon slips back into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

The next morning, Jopson is back, bathed and dressed and well ordered like usual. There is no change in his demeanor, except for perhaps a barely perceptible increase in the warmth of his eyes when they flick up to meet Francis’. He serves Francis his breakfast, readies his clothes for the day and takes his leave, but before he closes the door between them, they share a look, and it’s so soft and lingers just a little too long, and Francis feels his heart take flight, and a small secret smile play its way across his lips.


End file.
